


Midnight Sonata

by SOMETHINREAL



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Enlgish lit major! minghao, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, i guess, minghao paints in his spare time, pianist! jun, they're both insomniacs tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMETHINREAL/pseuds/SOMETHINREAL
Summary: The piano, Minghao thought, was a beautiful instrument. Just, maybe not at two in the morning when he needed to study for exams.or, in which Minghao's neighbour won't shut the fuck up on their piano.





	Midnight Sonata

**Author's Note:**

> this is a mess lmao i think i found this prompt on tumblr but i may have come up with it myself idk im also a mess and forgetful so

The piano, Minghao thought, was a beautiful instrument. It’s been around for centuries, and thousands upon thousands of songs have been composed on it. The piano had been there for when Minghao needed to calm his anxiety and the soft indie wasn’t working like it usually did, and when he needed to focus on finishing those essays that Mrs. Yu liked to assign over the breaks. It’s a peaceful instrument, though loud at times, and Minghao wasn’t ashamed to say he loved it. He didn’t, however, like it when it was coming through his wall loudly at two am.

Perhaps, he may have appreciated the sound of Wolfgang Mozart’s _Piano Concerto No. 23_ on any other day, but it was two in the morning, and Minghao had a five page essay he’d put off to write. The noisy pressing of keys was much too loud for his tired two am brain, much too distracting for his brain to focus on anything but that, _Concerto No. 23_. It may have been something he enjoyed listening to, if it didn’t sound like his neighbour was still in the midst of learning it and Mrs. Yu’s essay wasn’t due the following morning at nine sharp, and he wasn’t on the first of many, many paragraphs. He wouldn’t deny that his neighbour was talented at playing the piano, they were incredible, even though they sometimes hit a sour key, what came after would make up for it. Though, just because they were good didn’t make it any less loud and annoying.

He could go over and tell them to quit it, because he has an essay that’s worth ten percent of his final mark. He should go over and tell them that. And he would. Eventually. 

 

-

 

For an essay written the night before, Minghao did not half as bad as he’d expected to. A seventy wasn’t so bad, he supposed, because it bumped his mark up to an eighty-three, which was good for him _and_ for the fate of the phone call he would receive from his parents, who got his updated mark sent to them through the mail. Then again, how much good did that grade do for him when he had exams coming up and he couldn’t focus on his textbook because of his fucking neighbour at it again.

This time, however, _Goldberg Variations_ by none other than Johann Sebastian Bach (yes, Minghao knew. He used to like classical before it played in his ears every night from two to three in the morning). Minghao was sick and fucking tired of his goddamn neighbour and their two in the morning piano serenades. He could only take so much of the bloody noise (perhaps noise was the wrong word. If Minghao weren’t so pissed, it’d be quite beautiful), and he had endured it enough already.

Minghao slammed his textbook shut and stood forcefully from his desk, nearly knocking the half-filled mug of lukewarm coffee, which was the only thing (failing to) keeping him sane. He threw a sweatshirt over his t-shirt and put on some runners, realizing that a shirt with a hand flipping off the viewer and a pair of paint-stained bunny slippers were probably not the best attire for scolding his loud neighbour. He huffed, ran a hand through his messy mop of curls, and headed for the door.

He took a breather. His neighbour had a cat door-knocker and a welcome mat that had English, Mandarin, _and_ Korean on it. Jesus, since when did they make those? The piano only seemed to grow louder as Minghao got closer, which made sense, but the song had changed. It was no longer the soft song that Minghao had been trying hard to ignore for the past ten minutes, no, it was something more familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It sounded traditional, almost, but not quite so all at once. The sound of it made Minghao regret his decision of coming here at all, as it was nearing three and the harsh hallway’s lighting was too bright in his tired eyes.

Minghao supposed that the door wasn’t going to knock itself, after all, he came with a purpose, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to chicken out this time. He knocked, once, twice, three times on the metal cat knocker, and a horrid sound came from the piano, alongside a quiet curse from whoever it was. God, Minghao really, really hoped that his neighbour wasn’t some creepy sixty year old who’d skin him for complaining.

The door creaked open slowly and there was a...boy? A boy around his age, probably, maybe a year or two older, taller than Minghao with messy hair and deep dark circles under tired eyes and a shirt that hung too low on his shoulders. If Minghao weren’t pissed, the boy’d be pretty good looking, actually. Really, really good looking.

“Um, hi?” the boy tried, and shot Minghao a scared looking smile. Minghao was having none of it.

“Look, I’ve tried to put up with it for a really long time, and you- you’re talented, really talented, but I just- I can’t focus on studying for my exams. Can you- why do you have to play at three in the morning every day?” Minghao watched the boy worry his bottom lip between his teeth.

“It’s a tiring story,” the boy said. “If it isn’t too creepy, you could come in and I could explain, if you wanted.” Minghao wasn’t sure why, but he nodded his head. The boy let him in. “I’m Junhui,” he said. Junhui led him to the kitchen and pulled out a barstool for Minghao, who reluctantly took a seat.  

“I’m Myungho,” he said, and flicked his eyes around the dimly lit apartment. It was much alike his own, in the sense of space and setup, but also in the sense that there were papers and pens and food wrappers everywhere. It wasn’t a mess, per se, simply, you could tell that Junhui was a tired college student, just like Minghao.

“You wanted to know why I play so late?” Junhui asked, watching as Minhao nodded. “I’m sorry that it keeps you up. I, uh, I have insomnia, like really bad, ever since I was eleven. I assume you know what that is right?” Of course he knew what it was, seeing as he was a borderline insomniac himself.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Just, uh, the piano helps me sleep sometimes, because I can’t do it on my own and it’s really draining being so tired all the time. I kind of picked it up after I decided against sleeping pills, because it’s a natural thing for me. I’m sorry that it’s bothered you for a while. If I had known, I would have stopped a long time ago.” Junhui seemed genuinely serious about the whole thing, and the end bit, alongside the story itself made Minghao’s heart jump a little, which he did not like at all.

Minghao sighed reverently, nodding his head gently. “It helps you sleep?” Junhui nodded to that. “Then, I guess it’s fine. I suppose, maybe I could get used to it. Or buy noise-cancelling headphones, or something.”

“You’re nice,” Junhui said, more of an observation than a statement. Minghao felt his cheeks darken a little.

“Can you play me something?”

“You want me to play you a song?” Junhui asked, clearly confused by the sudden question. “I thought you didn’t-”

“Believe it or not, I actually like the piano,” Minghao told him, “I just don’t when I’m trying to study for exams.” Junhui nodded, slowly, tiredly, and jerked his shoulder towards a room down the hall.

“My room’s a bit of a mess, just warning you,” he said, and then lead Minghao down the corridor. His room was painted an off blue-grey, a star-speckled comforter thrown over black sheets, and a few sweatshirts and socks strewn around the carpeted expanse of the floor. It wasn’t so bad, Minghao supposed, not as bad as his own.

“Mine’s worse,” Minghao responded truthfully, and took a seat next to Junhui on the piano bench.

Minghao watched as Junhui pressed a few keys aimlessly. “What did you want me to play?”

“Can you play the one you were before I got here? I don’t know what it was.” There was a pause, and then Junhui was nodding, and he began to play. The song itself was beautiful, the chord progressions and rise and fall of the melody was enough to lull Minghao asleep and keep him up all at once; he could see now why this helped Junhui. He watched, mesmerized by the way Junhui’s slender fingers pressed each of the keys, going slow and quiet; harsh and fast, all together making something that Minghao found himself relishing in.

“The Legend of Qianlong,” Junhui said. “It’s the opening for The Legend of Qianlong.” It made sense now; Minghao had watched that programme as a teenager back in China.

“You play beautifully, you know. You’re amazing. I just think that people can’t appreciate it at two in the morning when they’re trying to sleep.” Minghao shot him an apologetic look of sorts, and Junhui nodded his head slowly. “I mean, now that I know that the creepy old guy who’d skin me if I said otherwise playing the piano is in fact just a cute college student, I’m not nearly as mad and scared, but I can’t say the same goes for our neighbours."

“Thank you,” Junhui said, “I mean, for understanding. I’ll see if I can maybe find something else to fight it off with.”

“You could, um, take up painting, maybe?” Minghao suggested, to which Junhui shook his head.

“No, I’m no good with using my hands like that.” Minghao, god bless him, attempted so dearly not to think about what Junhui, his really good looking next door neighbour was good at with his hands, and brushed off the subject completely. The colour in his cheeks didn’t cease though.

“You could talk to me, then,” Minghao offered. “I’m a borderline insomniac, too. We could bond over that, I guess, and study together for midterms.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Junhui asked, tilting his head in this cute sort of tired way that made Minghao smile.

“Of course not.”

“What’s your Chinese name?” Junhui asked. “I can tell you aren't from Korea.”

“Oh, um, Minghao. Xu Minghao,” he said.

“Wen Junhui.” And then they began talking.

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](http://twitter.com/hfkyounghyun)


End file.
